


The Johnlock Chronicles (a compilation of Johnlock and Mystrade stories)

by BookwormG



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I try to be funny, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Secret Admirer, Smut, Teen Sherlock, Teenlock, a lot of fluff, dorky john, dorky sherlock, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-08-06 22:50:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16396583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookwormG/pseuds/BookwormG
Summary: A collection of stories about Johnlock and Mystrade. It’s to mainly test out my writing style and stuff since I’m getting used to writing.





	1. Fluffy Blanket (Johnlock)

“Sherlock, you haven’t slept for days.” John crossed his arms and frowned at the Detective across him. The silver moon outside the window would mark the third night Sherlock refused to sleep and John was getting a little worried for him. 

Sherlock scrunched his nose up at John’s words and shook his head grouchily. He was situated on the couch, balled up into a mess of luscious curls and long limbs. 

“My body is a transport. I refuse to succumb to such mind numbing activities.” 

“Sherlock...I’m a doctor.” John warned as he stared at Sherlock’s adorable pouty lips. He was definitely not thinking about how to shut them up by kissing the Detective. 

Sherlock let out an adorable huff and purposely turned his head to look at the wall. He refused to listen to John, since when did he ever obey John anyway. 

John smiled when he heard Sherlock’s “I’m annoyed at you” huff. A few weeks ago he would have recoiled at the thought of even entertaining the grouchy man but ever since he realised he had feelings for the insufferable git, he’s become more tolerant of Sherlock’s antics. 

“Sherlock, as your doctor, you should really get some rest.” John glanced at the back of the Detective and giggled internally before sternly continuing, “I refuse to accept no as an answer. I’m going to get you a blanket to sleep in right now.”

As Watson left the room to find a blanket, Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth turn upwards into a reluctant smile. Somewhere in his mind palace, he was berating himself for having feelings for his flatmate. But John was the first person to genuinely like Sherlock and it was only natural for Sherlock to feel an attraction towards him. (Also, quite embarrassingly so, Sherlock had a thing for army men. Not that he would admit it. But the thought of it was... entertaining)

Sherlock was shaken out of his mind palace by a large fluffy mass of something that was suddenly covering his face. Sputtering in shock, Sherlock flailed around aimlessly under the blanket, managing to fall from his comfortable position on the couch. 

Unfortunately, Sherlock’s foot had hooked onto John’s calf and sent the both of them tumbling to the ground. The result was both of them in a very compromising position, with the fluffy blanket discarded by the side.

John exhaled slowly as he looked up at Sherlock, losing himself into those gorgeous blue green eyes that knew him so well. A single curly lock of hair dangled over John, tickling his nose. John’s eyes drifted down to Sherlock’s lips and he turned red at how close they were to his. 

“Well...it’s safe to assume that this wasn’t your intention.” Sherlock spoke softly, as if John were a frightened animal. Despite his rather neutral expression, his eyes were twinkling with interest. 

“Er...no. It wasn’t.” John whispered, relishing the hot air that came with Sherlock’s quiet breaths. The Detective smelled like toast and tea, two very welcoming scents that made John want to just lean into his shirt and breath it all in. 

Instead, he just held Sherlock’s gaze, which was slowly becoming more and more heated. Sherlock bent his head down slowly, letting his nose brush John’s. John gasped as Sherlock nuzzled into his cheek, his skin tingling when coming into contact with Sherlock’s cheek. 

“Sher...Sherlock.” John mumbled, “Kiss me.”

Sherlock smirked as he bent down to do exactly that. His lips captured John’s as he trapped him in a slow, filthy kiss. John’s mouth was still slightly open after talking and Sherlock took advantage by sliding his tongue along John’s bottom lip, nipping it to elicit a glorious sound from John. 

And that was only the beginning. With the roaring lust Sherlock had harbored inside of him, he kissed John in a way no man had ever kissed him, slow and sensual. Sherlock slid his tongue inside John’s mouth, tracing the sides of John’s tongue. Sherlock slid his hand up along John’s side to his cheek to deepen the kiss.

They pulled away, lips swollen and red. A trail of saliva links the both of their lips as they part. Their eyes are both unbelievably clouded with lust and longing. Sherlock is the first the break the deafening silence. 

“Elevated heartbeat and the dilation of your pupil. I noticed it...recently.” Sherlock blurted, his cheeks turning an adorable shade of pink. He flopped over to John’s left and grinned shamelessly at John. 

Watson turned towards his Detective and grinned back, teeth and all. “You are, without doubt, an insufferable git.” He announced, before bursting into laughter. 

“But you love me.” Sherlock pointed out, poking John’s ribs in protest. 

“But I love you.” John agreed, his hand finding the comfort of Sherlock’s warm spindly fingers. 

Under the dramatic moonlight, John and Sherlock lay on the floor, blanket totally disregarded as they held each other’s hands and looked at the ceiling. In that moment, nothing ever felt so right.


	2. Catching the Stalker (Johnlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on that very famous tumblr prompt of Teenlock online stalking John and then accidentally liking a photo about 50 weeks in.

Sherlock knew he wasn’t supposed to be doing this. He certainly should not be foraging for information about the cute rugby player whom he bumped into in class. He should definitely just talk to John instead of doing a very thorough internet stalk on his Instagram. 

Oh well, it was too late to stop now, he’s already 30 weeks in and there are no signs of stopping. As Sherlock scrolled through John’s Instagram, he recalled what had happened earlier in the afternoon that prompted this chain of events...

Earlier in the day, Sherlock was rushing somewhere, collar turned up against the wind and coat swishing behind him dramatically, he sped through the corridors of the building. He was anxious to go check his mail to see if he had gotten a role in the upcoming drama the theatre faculty was doing. (He didn’t get it, by the way)

So it was quite understandable that he didn’t see John Watson, a well liked member of the rugby team, fresh out of the changing rooms from a rowdy game of rugby. The two collided head on and Sherlock, being ever so dramatic, had made a spectacle of himself falling onto the floor. 

Instead of laughing at Sherlock, which most of the rugby players tend to do, John had bent down next to Sherlock and helped him up. He even checked Sherlock for any injuries and apologised. So one could say that, yes, Sherlock was a little twitterpated by the blond, handsome (and definitely experienced) boy. 

Which brings him back to where he was. Having deduced John’s Instagram handle, Sherlock set himself onto the wonderful task that was internet stalking a good looking bloke. Not just good looking, judging by the pictures, John was definitely downright attractive. 

As Sherlock scrolled through the posts, he noted that there was an increasing number of photos that were decidedly not John. Seems like he’s a social creature, unlike Sherlock. Each picture was like a perfect window that allowed Sherlock to look into John’s life. (And boy, Sherlock really liked what he saw)

He didn’t know how Long he was scrolling for till he saw that photo. It was a photo taken in the summer the year before. It seemed that John had been slightly skinnier the year before and was less insecure about taking a picture with his chest exposed. 

Standing at the edge of the pool, John’s grin was frozen and preserved in the picture. The sun shining brightly over his head, tracing over the golden mop of hair on John’s head. Someone seems to have thrown a ball into the water and John was playfully deflecting of the spray of water droplets. (Basically, John looked ethereal)

Enthralled by his find, Sherlock leaned into the computer to gape at the image, not noticing that he had accidentally liked the picture. It was only when he slouched back in his chair to take it all in that he noticed the glaring red heart.

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he immediately fumbled to “unlike” the photo. Clicking hastily, the red heart on the screen disappeared. Unfortunately for Sherlock, John would have already received the notification. Groaning loudly at his mistake, Sherlock cradled his head in his hands as he contemplated what to do next. 

Option a) He could fly to Paris, cut off all ties from London and continue his education in the city of love.   
Option b) He could steal John’s phone and delete John’s Instagram account.   
Option c) He could live in a cave for the rest of his life and never emerge from it ever again.  
Option d) He could delete John’s Instagram account by guessing John’s password. 

Either way, Sherlock was embarrassed. So embarrassed, that he was about to call Mycroft to ask him if it were possible allow Sherlock to reside in one of his dwellings in Paris. 

But that was before his phone buzzed. His Instagram. John had replied. Oh shit. Oh shitshitshitshitshit. 

Sherlock checked his phone, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach as he went into Instagram. 

Hi, a little awkward but did you just like one of my pictures from last year? Were you cyber stalking me?

Sherlock swallowed his saliva as he considered his next response, shrugging to himself, he decided to just do the one thing that may just get him through this: be himself. 

Yes, I did and yes, I was stalking you on the internet. I’m usually more subtle. -SH

Well, thank goodness I am. 

What do you mean? -SH

I’ve definitely not been scrolling your Instagram for ages to find any photos of you. 

Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Watson. You should know that I use my Instagram for fact collection. -SH

I think I’ve deduced it from the 300 or so pictures of ash on your Instagram. 

Excellent, there is still hope. -SH

As Sherlock typed, he let a slow smile spread on his face as he conversed with Watson. They continued to chat till the evening, arguing about the wonderful picture John had posted of himself. 

Still hate it. 

I find it perfectly nice. It’s an acceptable picture and the angle in particularly flattering. -SH

I look terrible now. It’s like False advertising.

You don’t look terrible. To be honest, you’re quite a good looking bloke. -SH

Are you flirting with me, Sherlock Holmes?

Sherlock gulped audibly as he typed out his response. (And retyped, over and over again.) Eventually, he was able to conjure up a word. 

Yes. -SH

Do you want to meet the model? ;) 

Depends. -SH

Well, I know a good place to have coffee and I’m free tomorrow so... if you want to........

10am is my preferred timing. -SH

Great, it’s a date! See you tomorrow, handsome! ;)

Sherlock grinned and placed his phone on the table. An indescribable warmth tickled his chest and spread throughout his body as he grinned stupidly at the computer screen. For the first time in his life, he was at a loss for words. He had a date tomorrow, a real date. With a dashing, wonderful man. 

Somewhere in the city of London, John Watson was smiling at his phone. He was filled with anticipation to meet Sherlock again and a little throb from his heart agreed. 

All just cause he caught a stalker.


	3. Flawed Childcare (Mystrade smut)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically, Mycroft is hurt by his bosses and Lestrade has to put away Rosie to...comfort his pouty Boyfriend. Smut. Duh. I also apologise for posting this cause Mycroft and Lestrade are really out of character in this one.

Mycroft was not in the best mood. The higher ups in his place of work had recommended that he should have a break. Upon finding out that it was because China’s secret service refused to work with a homosexual, Mycroft was, quite understandably, upset and did not take the news very well. 

Mycroft had arrived home in a foul mood, slamming the door behind him as he stomped his way up the stairs. The fact that Greg had not been at the door to welcome Mycroft with the usual peppering of kisses and tea seemed to have worsened his mood significantly. 

It was perhaps Mycroft’s frustration that had clouded his skills of observation. If he had looked a little closely, he would also see tiny scuff lines made by tiny fingers. He would also had noticed a tiny pair of toddler shoes that were neatly tucked into the shoe rack. 

So Mycroft was duly shocked when entered the room to see tiny Rosie, bouncing cheerfully on Greg’s lap, pretty eyes shining with joy. Almost immediately, Mycroft scowled at the little toddler, angry at her for stealing away Greg’s attention. (Because it is only logical to be jealous of a tiny toddler who requires constant attention)

Greg had obviously noted that Mycroft had arrived back home. However, seeing that he had a tiny child in his hands due to “a dire emergency, Gavin”, he could not go to the door to give Mycroft his usual warm welcome. (Kisses and tea equals a very happy Mycroft)

“Hello Love, long day?” Greg inquired, noting the very obvious frown on Mycroft’s face. 

“You could say that...” Mycroft groaned as he sat on the couch across Greg. He leaned backwards and swung his umbrella dramatically to the side, looking rather discontent. 

Greg nodded understandingly as he set Rosie next to him so that he could properly pay attention to Mycroft. He had spent enough time around the man to know when he needed time alone and when he needed to confide in someone. Today, he sensed that Mycroft was decidedly needing the latter. 

Greg tilted himself forward so that he could reach over and clasp his hand over Mycroft’s to comfort him. He found that rubbing his thumb against Mycroft’s palm would be extremely calming to the distressed Holmes. 

“Tell me, what’s wrong?” Greg smiled reassuringly. 

“Classified...” Mycroft sighed, bringing his free hand up towards him to massage his temples. “The long and short of it being that I am temporarily suspended from work due to...my sexuality.”

Greg paused as he rubbed comforting circles into Mycroft’s palm before breathing out two little heartbreaking words, “Oh, Mycroft....”

Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed, “You know, your comforting tactic may have worked a lot better if my dear Brother hadn’t left that child here.” 

Greg turned to his side to look at the little girl who was fidgeting away merrily. She was counting off her fingers as she kicked her little feet around, giggling through her words as she babbled incoherently. 

“Be gentle, Mycroft, she’s just a child. Why don’t you just be a little patient, I know just what might cheer you up. Let me just put her in her crib, so that we may not be disturbed.” With that, Greg winked at Mycroft, causing the latter to blush a rather dark shade of crimson. 

“I’ll...wait...” Mycroft muttered, eyes already lighting up in anticipation of what was going to happen next. 

Greg nodded as he lifted the tiny babbling child, cooing at her as she giggled. He tucked her into her crib, smiling at the little girl. He knew had a soft spot for the little girl, probably because she reminded him of his own children when they were born. Now, they were more prickly that ever, seeing that they’ve just entered the terrible teens. 

He walked back towards Mycroft, a slow smirk spreading on his mouth as he reached to grab Mycroft’s silk tie, weaving his fingers around it. Tugging gently, he used his other hand to caress Mycroft’s face. 

“Don’t look so down.” Greg breathed down at Mycroft, whose face was only inches from his own, a look of complete surprise drawn on his features. 

“I’m not...” Mycroft sighed as Greg’s lips crashed into his, arching his back towards the other in a lewd manner. 

They kissed and kissed until their lips became red and swollen. Somewhere in the middle of the process, Greg had climbed onto Mycroft’s lap and was now straddling him while he ferociously ravaged the man below. Mycroft on the other, was not one to object, and allowed himself to just be consumed by the feeling of intense attraction. 

They separated, eyes heavily clouded with lust. Greg smirked as he looked down at their matching hard ons before saying, “Now, don’t you want to know why the higher ups can just go fuck themselves?”

Mycroft stayed silent, eyes hooded with anticipation as Lestrade hitched himself higher on his lap to grind their erections together. Mycroft moaned, definitely unashamed as he whined and bucked his hips forward for more friction. His crotch felt like it was on fire and he needed more. 

“Greg...Gregory please...” he whined, hands scrabbling frantically against the expensive Italian couch, leaving definitive claw marks.

“What is it, Myc? You got to say it.” Greg answered, a little breathlessly as he used a finger to trace the outline of Mycroft’s erection, fingers still clenched around the silk tie. 

“Jesus...I...Gregory...please...” Mycroft groaned, thrusting into Greg’s hands. A wet patch form by his precome was already forming, not that Mycroft cared. All he wanted was Greg, just more and more of Greg. 

Lestrade smiled, “Pretty thing, you’ll always receive when you ask nicely. Take your pants off.” With that, both of them were rid of all attire, Mycroft draped compromisingly over the couch, legs spread apart as he waited for Lestrade’s next command. 

Greg smiled as he surveyed Mycroft. He was lying on the couch with his legs spread wide open like an invitation to fuck him, his little pink hole clenching at the mere thought of being filled. So pretty, so vulnerable and sensitive, so goddam perfect. 

In a swift move, he pulled Mycroft’s legs apart and licked one bold stripe over his trembling hole. Coating his fingers in his own saliva, Lestrade gently inserted a finger into Mycroft’s arse, relishing in the moans he was eliciting from the other. 

Greg twisted and stretched Mycroft’s hole mercilessly, allowing Mycroft to slowly become a melting heap of whimpers and moans. As soon as Lestrade inserted two long, nimble digits into his arse, he hooked them upwards expertly, finding Mycroft prostate. 

“Argh, right there! There...perfect...” Mycroft babbled as he twisted his head to the side, biting his lips to prevent himself from yelling. 

Soon, Lestrade’s two fingers turned into three, each helping to scissor and stretch out the moaning mess that was Mycroft. His quick fingers almost never leaving that precious bundle of nerves, constantly pressing and abusing it, making Mycroft whimper and blink back tears of pleasure. 

“Gr...Gregory...please fuck me....fuck me please...ahhh...” Mycroft begged when Lestrade twisted his fingers, stroking his prostate in a teasing manner that was just too much. He begs shamelessly until Greg pulls the fingers out and Mycroft sobs in frustration, even as he hears Greg rip open the condom. 

“Okay, Myc, I’m going to, calm down, it’s okay.” Greg shushed Mycroft as he petted the other’s leg awkwardly, trying to get him to relax a little. It works and Mycroft manages the tiniest of nods to showcase consent. 

Grabbing his cock in one hand, Lestrade slowly sunk the tip into Mycroft’s tight waiting heat. He sucked in a deep breath as he was met with the overwhelming sensation of Mycroft’s greedy hole clenching onto his cock. 

“Oh...fuck. Mycroft...” Lestrade sighed, pushing his cock deeper into the other until he was fully sheathed in Mycroft. 

“Move...Greg...” Mycroft gasped at the new feeling. He finds himself panting and squeaking while he fists frantically at the nothing, but the feeling is so good and so consuming that he simply does not care and all he could think about was GregGregGreg. 

Lestrade huffed and complied with Mycroft’s (slightly bossy) command. As he thrusted into Mycroft’s compliant body, he can hear himself making filthy, breathy noises and he’s quite surprised they’re coming from him. It’s almost surreal. Below him, Mycroft is making noises too. Desperate moans, incessant whimpers and hissed expletives pepper the air as Lestrade fills him repeatedly. 

Mycroft grits his teeth as he tries to bring himself to the breaking point. But it’s not enough, he feels full and really fucked out but he needed more. Groaning, Mycroft lifted his head and whimpered,”Fuck me harder.”

Lestrade’s breath stutters to process the words coming out of Mycroft’s mouth. All of a sudden, he pulls out. The tip is barely in Mycroft’s ass, causing Mycroft to to whimper needy. Quickly, he thrusts in deeper, hips pistoning in and out at a much quicker pace. 

Mycroft moans lewdly and starts pushing back against Greg to meet his thrusts. It feels like he’s being split open, and it’s so addictive and amazing that he wants to scream. Then Lestrade changes his angle, tilting Mycroft’s leg upwards and starts rubbing hard over his sweet spot with each thrust. 

Mycroft wails and shudders as his knees slip further apart on the couch until he feels like he might fall off and his hands grab frantically at the throw pillows behind his head. He’s never felt so good in his life, and he can feel his orgasm building deep in him. Lestrade is getting close too. Mycroft can tell because one of his warm hands had found its way to Mycroft’s chest, pinning him in place on the couch, and the other arm wraps around his middle and he grabs possessively at Mycroft’s waist. 

Lestrade’s grip tightens around Mycroft as he thrusts in harder. Mycroft feels so good and used like this, pinned under Lestrade, sweat dampening the couch. The other man picks up the pace again, definitely close, mumbling a string of filthy swear words and Mycroft cries out loudly with every thrust. 

Just a few more rough, deep thrusts and dizzying jabs to his sensitive prostate and Mycroft squeezes his eyes shut and spasms as his orgasm explodes out of him, untouched. 

Lestrade fucks him hard through it and Mycroft’s spasming muscles have him spilling into the condom as he collapses over Mycroft. They breathe together for a moment before Lestrade pulls out and ties off condom. Mycroft feels boneless as he watches Lestrade lick all of his come off of his soft dick and stomach. 

Mycroft jerks when Lestrade’s naughty tongue traces over the oversensitive flesh, but Lestrade is gentle and quick about it. As he cuddles on Mycroft’s side, he takes a couple of minutes to suck a hickey on his neck while they both calm down from their high.

They still in the same position and panting feverishly when the door flies open, revealing Sherlock and John, here to collect Rosie. 

Lestrade imagines what they must me seeing and cringes internally. Mycroft is lying on his side all fucked out and very naked with Lestrade behind him, his face is no doubt sporting a “I just got laid” look. Mycroft also seems to be drifting off due to sheer tiredness, flushed and breathless.

“WHAT THE FUCK-“

And that was basically the story of how Sherlock refused to let Mycroft and ‘Gavin’ ever try to babysit Rosie. (But John found it rather amusing. In fact I’m pretty sure they did the do that day too so...)


	4. The three times John questioned his sexuality and the one time he didn’t pt1

It was a regular rainy day in the flat. Sherlock had went bouncing off to the morgue to bother Molly for body parts and John was at home enjoying a particularly lovely cup of tea. 

It was days like this that John loved the most. It was quiet and he was snuggled into his armchair, sipping his chamomile tea while reading a darn good book. A romance novel, since he was so sick of Detective stories. 

It’s been a while since he’s read romance novels. But he was sucked into the story, like the romantic he was. He could feel his heart swooping in and out as the female lead struggled with her feelings for her female roommate. 

Speaking of roommates, where was Sherlock? The man had disappeared for an hour and his morgue runs usually take about 30 minutes. (Not that John was counting)

As if on cue, the front door burst open to reveal Sherlock, who was...unapologetically shirtless. His curly locks were wet and were sticking to his forehead, dripping water all over the carpet. His eyes were bright, like he was injected with a generous dose of adrenaline. 

The star of the show, however, was Sherlock’s pale, scarred torso, which was on full display underneath the coat. The rainwater gave it a pearly sheen and the faint lines of lean muscle could be seen. His waistline was incredibly small, and Sherlock’s taut belly showed signs of abdominal muscle. 

John didn’t mean to stare at Sherlock’s body. John tried really hard not to look at Sherlock’s amazing body. But he couldn’t help it. It was like putting a slab of meat in front of a starving lion and telling him to wait. John blushed as his eyes ravaged Sherlock’s body, gazing hungrily at his exposed neck, wanting nothing more than to place a hickey-

“I’m not gay.” John admonished to himself, nearly dropping his book when Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him. 

“I know.” Sherlock scoffed as he walked past him, settling on the armchair opposite John. 

“What...happened? Do I want to know?” John grumbled as he tried to pull his attention to his book. (But his damn eyes just wanted to stare at Sherlock’s body)

“Too much blood on my shirt, so I threw it away. The coat helped me cover up.” Sherlock mumbled as he stared at the book in John’s hand. 

“Her and her? A romance novel? Well, I wouldn’t put it past you John, since you’re such a romantic. But aren’t you ‘not gay’?” Sherlock tried to suppress a giggle and failed miserably. 

“I’m not gay.” John huffed, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock’s chest. 

“Of course not, John.” Sherlock levelled his cool gaze with John’s very naughty eyes. He smiled at his knowingly before asking innocently, “Does the army have this kind of view?” 

John choked on his tea, snorting it up his nose. He scowled at Sherlock, slouching terribly in his chair and trying not to think of a rather disturbing image that involved a shirtless Sherlock wearing army gear. My, what a luscious sight that would be. John bit his lip in thought, it would definitely be a sight John would prize. 

Hissing when he realised what he was doing, John recoiled away from his thoughts and buried himself into his book. Not. Gay. 

Meanwhile Sherlock was sitting in the opposite chair, just observing John. He was bored. Of course, deducing the hell out of John while he listened could be the answer. For example, once Sherlock deuces John was more of a cat person in front of his then Girlfriend (who owned a dog), they fought wondrously. 

Causing mild states of chaos which he could monitor had always been his forte. Also, it was funny to sometimes see John backed into a corner. 

“You’re doing that thing again.” John mumbled, eyes narrowing at Sherlock over his book. 

“What would be this thing that I am doing?”

“The face you make when you’re about to deduce the shit out of someone.” 

“You don’t know that, John. Also when are you going to tell me that you are going to visit your Sister? Why can’t I meet her? Is it because we are both addicts? Does that make you uncomfortable?”

John grumbled something about it not being any of Sherlock’s business and that he was going to his room. 

That night, John lay awake, thinking of a certain shirtless Detective.


	5. The three times John questioned his sexuality and the one time he didn’t pt2

A few days after the shirtless fiasco, John realised that he might have to introduce Harry to Sherlock. (Or else Mr Dramatic would be extremely huffy that he didn’t meet her) He wasn’t too worried about Harry meeting Sherlock, in fact, he was much more concerned about how Sherlock would be affected. After all, visits from Harry always end up a bit... disastrous. 

Which leads us to the now, 10 minutes before Harry was coming over to the flat. John had already yelled for Sherlock to come and wait in the living room like a civil person but he was somewhere in his room, screeching on the violin in private. The poor man must be stressed, since John hadn’t heard such terrible sounds since Irene Adler. 

“Sherlock, come on! It’s my Sister!” John berated from the door as he peeked through the eyehole to anticipate his sister’s arrival. 

“Alright, I’m coming down!” Sherlock yelled back in response, finishing his violin session with a series of high pitched notes. He scrambled towards the door, adjusting the collar of his purple silk shirt as he did so. 

“Ding dong!” The bell rang throughout the apartment, prompting John to pull open the door with rehearsed movements. The smile on his face was so artificial that it physically pained Sherlock to look at him. 

“Hello, baby bro! So good to see ya! How have you been??!” Harry blurted as she wrapped John in a tight embrace. Without awaiting his response, she leaned over to exhale in front of John’s face. 

John raised his eyebrows in shock, the lack of the usual stink of alcohol was very surprising. Instead, there was a distinct smell of milk and cigarettes in her breath that he could get used to. (But...smoking....)

Harry’s pride was rather apparent as she grinned at her Brother. “Tad— oh my...who is this?” Harry purred, glancing behind John’s shoulder to look at Sherlock. 

When John told Sherlock to dress well, he didn’t expect him to pull out his purple shirt. The sexy, fitted purple shirt that accentuated all the good things about Sherlock’s body. To make matters worse, Sherlock had paired the shirt with a lovely black pants that was tight... in all the right places. 

John gulped as Sherlock smiled (genuinely?!) at Harry, messing up his curly locks. “Hello, Miss. I’m Sherlock Holmes, John’s flatmate.”

John looked on at Sherlock in disbelief. Was Sherlock being...nice? But...he was Sherlock, he didn’t do “nice”. John frowned and just shrugged, at least Sherlock was on his best behaviour and it would make this exchange go smoothly. 

“Let’s go to the living room, I’ll get tea.” John mumbled, turning toward the Kitchen. 

“Oh, I’ll help you Johnny boy. I have questions.” Harry winked at Sherlock, who managed to look incredibly adorable and mildly disgusted by it. 

As soon as they were in the kitchen, Harry’s eyes lit up and a flood of questions escaped her lips. “He’s so hot. Are you dating? You can’t tell me you guy are not dating. Have you seen that shirt? His eyes? His cheekbones? Oh my god the cheekbones-“

“Harry.” 

“What?”

“You are married.”

Harry rolled her eyes at him and scoffed, “I’m married and a lesbian but guess what? I’m not blind.”

John shook his head and sighed exasperatedly, wanting nothing more than to slap the hell out of his Sister. “I’m not gay! Why would you even assume that I would date Sherlock?”

Harry stared into John’s eyes in mock seriousness and pointed an accusing finger at his face. “What more do you want? He’s hot, he’s smart and he’s availableeeee. God, if I wasn’t married I would turn straight for him alone.”

John snorted. The mere thought that Sherlock’s devilishly handsome looks were more than enough to change a person’s sexuality was hilarious. He was about to say so until he remembered Irene Adler. Damn it. So he really was that good looking a bloke?

“Oi! We’ve been in here for 20 minutes, pretty boy is going to be wondering what we are doing!” Harry hissed, pulling John out of the door to the living room.   
~~~  
John sat across Sherlock on the couch, not really listening to the boring conversation that Sherlock and Harry were immersed in. He was far more interested how Sherlock looked in his outfit. 

The shirt looked so tight and luxurious. It was probably tailored to Sherlock’s size. Pearly buttons held everything together, protecting the lithe and delicate skin underneath. It was all a perfect little package of beauty. John gulped as his eyes travelled downwards to Sherlock’s pants. 

The pants were so clean and well cut. Not a single piece of lint was found on it and it was very snug in different areas. Not to mention, Sherlock’s.... ahem. It hugged Sherlock’s thighs just so that everyone could see his toned thigh muscles. John didn’t realise his friend was so fit. But then again, Sherlock was full of surprises. 

Seeing that John was in his own little space, Sherlock tried to include him in the conversation. (Sherlock was absolutely butchering the conversation and if John was listening instead of checking out his sexy roommate, he would have known that Harry was discussing about gay clubs in London.)

“John...I’ve seemed to taken a pro stripper stance. Could you help me?” Sherlock asked, clearly embarrassed. 

(Meanwhile, Harry’s just having the time of her life, teasing the great Sherlock Holmes into saying that he wouldn’t mind stripping. She’s not even drunk, mind you, but she bet that she could goad Sherlock into stripping if she were drunk.)

“You wouldn’t...look half bad...” John mumbled, licking his lips unconsciously, obviously unaware that he said this out loud. 

A full second of silence envelopes the table until John finally comprehended what he said. “OH NO. I DIDN’T MEAN THAT. I MEAN. I’M NOT GAY. NOT THAT YOU WOULDN’T LOOK GOOD. BUT THAT WAS THE POINT. I DON’T KNOW. YOU’RE A GOOD LOOKING FELLA. I DON’T—“

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, not knowing whether to feel flattered or harassed. Meanwhile, Harry looked on at her stuttering Brother, infinitely amused. 

“Not gay...you said...” Harry teased, waggling her eyebrows at Sherlock, whose cheeks are now tinged the most delicate of pinks. 

John looked at her in absolute horror before he turned to his flatmate to apologise. “God, Sherlock. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for that to come out. I’m not gay...you see.”

Harry pursed her lips and nodded sarcastically before leaning towards a very uncharacteristically silent Sherlock to whisper (very loudly). “He’s only gay for you...you see.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and screeched at Harry. The Detective was now perched in the middle of the seat, both hands raised upwards as if he was about to take flight. (The buttons on his suits were straining and both Watsons may or may not be wanting for one of them to split open) Simultaneously, John had let out a strangled noise and clenched his fist tightly around the poor throw pillow. 

“I think...you’ve Long outstayed your welcome, Miss Watson.” Sherlock gritted through his teeth, lowering his hand to his side. 

Harry nodded cheerfully, unaware of the damage she has done. “I know, I’m just here as a voice of reason.” She chirped, standing up and walking to the door by herself. There was a definitive spring in her step. 

“THAT IS NOT THE VOICE OF REASON!” John shrieked after her. 

“I know. You’d only listen to the purple shirt of sex!!!” Harry hollered back cheekily before slamming the door shut behind her. 

“Soo... she’s quite the...character.” Sherlock mumbled, looking at Watson with curious eyes. 

“Shut up, purple shirt of sex.” John huffed, crossing his arms. He was embarrassed and derailed by Harry’s stupid remarks and just wanted to insult Sherlock. 

However, it invited a very different reaction that the pouting John though he was about to hear.

“Yeah, of course. Not gay.”

Both Sherlock at John retreated to their rooms for the night. They refuse to reconcile and talk for three days until Sherlock breaks the silence by screaming for tea. According to John, such effects always come hand in hand when Harry visits his friends.


	6. The three times John questioned his sexuality and the one time he didn’t. Pt3)

“Sherlock, you are sick and you can’t go out!” John berated the pouty mess of a man lying on the couch. 

“I’m not ill, I’m just slightly... not good.” Sherlock muttered, his face flushed a gentle pink due to the high temperature he was running. His words were slightly impaired by his blocked nose, making it very hard for John to take him seriously. 

John huffed in mock anger as he motioned to get closer. “I’m going to check if you’re warm and if you are, you are not going out. Honestly, why do I have to take care of you? You are such a child.” 

Eyeing John’s hand warily, Sherlock shook his head. He was not a child and refused to be treated as such. He covered his forehead with his hands to try and prevent John from taking his temperature, “I’m not si— “

John placed his hand on Sherlock’s neck, effectively silencing Sherlock. He felt a blush creeping up his neck as he effectively stroked Sherlock’s neck to check his temperature. 

Hm. Warm. 

The room was silent and then Sherlock’s head tilted downwards so that John’s hand was right next to his cheek. Closing his eyes, he started to nuzzle into John’s hand in some sort of fever induced haze. 

“Sherlock, “ John spoke slowly after a few minutes of intense nuzzling, trying to remove his poor hand so that he could make some tea, “You are running a fever. You should go lie down.”

Sherlock let out a high pitched whimper and grumbled sleepily as John withdrew his hand, “But... I want... “

“Go to bed, Sherlock. I’ll go there later.” John smiled as the Long legged Detective whined sleepily, finding his actions a little too endearing. 

As Sherlock trudged his way to his room, John went to the kitchen to make two cups of green tea. Sherlock had never been sick before, although it was inevitable, since that man viewed his body as a transport. John bet that he had to be the one to personally nurse Sherlock so that he would actually recover.   
~~~  
John walked carefully to Sherlock’s room, balancing a food tray laden with tea, biscuits, medicine, a cold towel and some science magazines for Sherlock to indulge in. He also brought his romance novel along, seeing that he might have to watch over Sherlock for a while. 

John pushed the door open quietly, cursing under his breath as it creaked. “Sherlock?” John whispered, “I’m here.”

Sherlock was lying on his bed like a corpse, hands by his side with his eyes wide open. His pale white alabaster skin was tinged pink with the fever and his lips were firmly pursed together. His head turned towards John and he scrunched his nose adorably, pulling the blankets over his mouth. 

“I don’t want.”

“Sherlock, you have to take the medicine.” John chided, setting the tray down on the bedside table. He drew up and chair and sat next to Sherlock’s bed, immediately setting up. He arranged the pills in his hand, balancing it so that he could carry a glass a water at the same time. In his other hand, he grabbed a cold towel, poised to slap down on Sherlock’s forehead. 

“Fine,” Sherlock relented, turning his body to face John. He reached his hand out to grab the pills and he quickly dry swallowed them. John shook his head in mock disapproval and placed the cold towel on Sherlock’s forehead. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and mumbled, “Read to me. It helps me sleep.”

John’s eyes widened as he stared at the magazines on the tray. Slowly, he started to reach for the first one, titled ‘The Great Mistakes of Newton’. He had never read to Sherlock and found it incredibly intimidating to read to his roommate. 

“Not the science magazines...Your novel...” Sherlock murmured, snuggling into the blankets. 

John wanted to laugh. So the great Sherlock Holmes was commanding him to read him a romance novel. But he took one look at poor sleepy Sherlock, burning up from a fever and huffed, flipping the book open. 

“She was nervous, how could she not? Melissa was never the type to want physical contact. Her heart was beating wildly as-“ John read, pausing for a second when Sherlock grabbed his spare hand to cuddle with. 

Taking a deep breath, John continued, “Her heart was beating wildly as Melissa leaned in to brush my hair away from my eyes. “It was always you...” I breathed. Melissa smiled and shook her head, she was afraid.”

As John read, he noticed Sherlock was slowly nodding off to sleep. Sherlock was still cradling John’s hand, pinning him next to the Detective. He smiled at Sherlock, knowing that Sherlock would not see him. The man usually wore a horrendous scowl on his face but while he was sleeping, he was the perfect picture of innocence. 

His Cupid bow lips were gently curled upwards, effectively making Sherlock look like a perfect little angel, fast asleep. His eyelashes were Long and delicate, framing his eyes and fluttering when the air from the air conditioning hit his face. 

John couldn’t help himself as he reached out his spare hand to stroke Sherlock’s curls. Smiling fondly at the sleeping man, John wanted to give him a little kiss, right on the tip of his nose. 

A kiss. 

For Sherlock. 

“Am I gay...?” John’s voice trailed off as his eyes landed on Sherlock’s sleeping form, “For Sherlock?”

Of course, he liked Sherlock. Sherlock was his Best Friend, his closest Friend. They shared an apartment together and stuff but did he really like Sherlock like that? He supposed that maybe the piercing feeling he felt whenever Molly talked to Sherlock was because he was worried for her but...

Was he jealous? Did he rally like Sherlock?

John’s eyes drifted to the detective’s face, a perfect image of innocence and smiled. Maybe he did. Maybe he did like Sherlock. Who cared? He kinda does like Sherlock. 

“Fuck it.” John mumbled as he leaned forward to breath in Sherlock’s scent. (He smelled like berries, something woody and oh so Sherlock) 

“I’m gay for you, Sherlock”

With that, John leaned over and pressed a sweet, loving kiss on Sherlock’s temple. No more worrying, no more denying, he was unapologetically, undeniably, in love with Sherlock. 

When Sherlock woke up later in the evening, he had no idea why John was blushing so much. (And also why he was sleeping ever so closely to his face)


	7. The three times John questioned his sexuality and the one time he didn’t. Pt4

There were two things that John felt after he came to terms with his sexuality. 

Number one, realising that he was gay was freeing to John. It was like a cage had been lifted from his body and left him a free spirit. He felt really good about himself, more confident, no longer wanting to feel too insecure about who he was. Jesus, the first thing he did was to call Harry. (And of course that went... “well”)

“Harry, I just wanted to call because I figured something out!” John whispered as if he was conspiring with an enemy. (Sherlock was in the other room, having woken up to update his boring blog)

“What? Did you finally realise that you were gay for Sherlock?” Harry spoke, voice muffled by phone’s poor quality speaker. 

John stood very still, bent over the phone like a shocked chihuahua, wondering how Harry was able to do that. “How...how did you know?”

“I didn’t. Congratulations John, welcome to the club!!!” Harry yelled into the phone before continuing in a very suggestive tone, “So....does your little Sherly knowwwww?”

“Shut up.” John felt his face turn an embarrassingly deep shade of crimson, wanting to punch Harry through the phone for both the use of suggestive tone and for calling Sherlock “Sherly”.

Which led to the second thing John realised. It really was quite simple but it was kinda difficult to totally ignore the fact that the object of his affections was not... receptive of his feelings. John knew he was in love with Sherlock but he didn’t really know what to do about it. 

Sherlock was pretty much asexual. (Or so John thought) The man said he was married to his work and that (to John) screamed asexual. Curse Sherlock and his vague explanation of his sexuality. Curse him and his “women aren’t my area” bullshit. Stupid Sherlock and his pretty hair. Idiot Sherlock with his pretty eyes and nose and all the other equally attractive body parts. Stupid. 

“John?” The Detective in question asked, shaking John out of his stupor. “What I’m about to ask of you is something very strange and out of the norm for me. You must answer me honestly without getting too excited. Can you do that?” 

John slid his phone back into his pocket and nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock suspiciously. He really wasn’t looking forward to another surprise trip to the morgue, the blood and organs really just ruined his appetite and it was so close to dinner. 

“I’m... hungry...” Sherlock confessed, dipping his head down, causing his hair to fall in front of his eyes in the most swoon worthy way. (Not that John would openly swoon just like that. He had self control.)

“You are... hungry? Are you serious, Sherlock?” John nearly gasped in disbelief at the admission. Almost immediately, his caretaker instinct took over, making him sound like an overprotective Mother hen, “Great, go get your jacket and coat. Bring your wallet. We are going to Angelo’s to get you a proper meal. Bring an umbrella, it looks like it’s about to rain. If you forget, I will be very disappointed in you.”

(Yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, John was thinking about how perfect this would be if it was an actual date. BUT IT WAS VERY FAR BACK IN HIS MIND. Sherlock’s well-being came first.)

Just like that, the two were off to their favourite restaurant, John looking like all his dreams had come true and Sherlock with a rather shy, bashful look on his face. John really didn’t understand what was so shameful about being hungry, honestly, Sherlock was being (adorably) ridiculous. 

They both walked into the cozy Italian restaurant, settling into the booth where they first had dinner together. However, one thing was different:

“I will get a candle, it’s more romantic...” Angelo announced before scuttling off to find a pretty little candle. This time, John didn’t say anything, he just smiled and let his eyes wander over to Sherlock. 

They quickly ordered their usuals and settled down to eat. Halfway through their meal, Sherlock decides to interrupt the mutual respect for food and manners by blatantly asking John, “Do you like me as a lover, John?”

John’s reflexes acted faster than he did, making him spit out his pasta. The chewed up bits spattered over Sherlock’s navy suit, causing John to wince before saying, “I’m sorry?”

“When I fell ill, you fell asleep tending to me. Your saliva also has a very distinct smell which left a residue on my forehead. This was why I looked slightly confused when I woke up as there were traces of your saliva on my skin. You must have kissed me.” Sherlock stated, all the while chewing merrily at his sandwich. (Who orders a sandwich at an Italian restaurant?!)

Of course, while Sherlock was saying this, John’s cheeks were turning brilliantly red, with the tips of his ears going a little pink for emphasis. Here was his roommate/crush, lecturing him on how obvious he was when he was crushing hard on him. God, it was a huge turn on for John. 

While Sherlock went yammering about the science of attraction, John swallowed his fear. He stared at his chittering roommate, who was pointing out things about different people in the room in rapid fire style. John stared into the strange, beautiful, blue green eyes that he knew so well and took a deep breath. 

Fuck it, let’s go. 

John leaned forward and captured Sherlock’s sweet lips in his own (which were jabbering about a man cheating on his Wife). He wanted to show Sherlock that he loved him, that he just wanted to hold him and hug him and accept him, deductions and all.

Sherlock was as stiff as a board, his entire face tensed considerably when John’s lips touched his. In just a split second, Sherlock had melted. His mouth moved slowly against John’s, not knowing quite what he was doing, but wanting it so badly. 

However, since humans needed to do this terribly inconvenient thing called breathing, they had to pull apart. Neither pointed out the very suggestive trail of saliva that was joining them together. 

“I love you.” They blurted out, cheeks flushed and eyes burning brightly at each other.   
John cracked a faint smile as he reached out toward Sherlock to brush his hair out of his face. His lips were a little swollen and he could see a slight puffiness of Sherlock’s lips too. 

Sherlock grinned, bringing a hand up to his curls to massage his head. “That wasn’t too hard now, was it?”

“Shut up.”

After a quick call to Angelo and a scuffle for the bill (Sherlock won) and the pair were walking merrily back to 221b Baker Street, giggling and holding hands like a pair of blushing teenagers on their first date. 

They burst into the flat and sprawled over the living room floor, kissing and laughing. They snuggled sweetly on the carpeted floor, locking their hands together as they stared up at the ceiling. 

Lips swollen and puffy from kissing, John swore that he had never been as happy as that night. With Sherlock near him, how could he ever be upset?

“You can’t!” Sherlock’s voice rumbled comfortingly, nuzzling into the crook of John’s arm while flipping off an unknown person. 

“What?” John giggled at the content Detective, all curled up next to him like a cat. 

“Turn off...your stupid cameras and microphones...Mycroft... I want to ravage this man.”

John choked on his saliva and grinned foolishly. Something tells him that he was about to have one hell of a night.


	8. Overprotective parents (Rosie)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt where Sherlock finally accepts one of Rosie’s boyfriends. Enjoy!

“Mycroft, he’s here.” Sherlock’s voice pierced Mycroft’s ear through his business earpiece. 

Mycroft immediately tapped a sleepy Greg next to him and narrowed his eyes on one of the many monitors in front of him. All of them were of the wonderful Holmes apartment, spanning every room, from the master bedroom (oh dear) to Rosie’s bedroom. (Not the bathroom, because both Rosie and John were about to throw a fit.)

Back in apartment 221b Baker Street, Sherlock and John were sporting matching earpieces. They were sitting in their respective armchairs, both having very similar expressions on their faces. It was a “delicate” mix of worry, concern and skepticism. 

Rosie, a now very lovely grown up teenager with choppy short blonde hair, sat on the couch opposite, looking very upset. Her brown eyes were shining with spite as she scowled at her dad. She couldn’t help wondering if it would have been easier to sneak out of the house to go on her date instead of this.   
~~~  
“Father, I’m not going to discuss fungi on Friday! I have a date!” Rosie protested at Sherlock, who was merely helping John to bake a cake before being attacked with such trifling news. 

“What did you say?” Sherlock spluttered, nearly dropping the mixing bowl on the ground in surprise. He knew John would react in a much more “normal” way but he was in the toilet and was not setting any standards right now. 

Rosie blushed, a pretty pink colouring her pale skin. “I have a date on Friday. I hope you won’t mind...” 

Sherlock stared at his Daughter in absolute horror. His beautiful, steadfast, strong, brash (insert independent woman adjectives here) girl was blushing (?!) over a male. Judging by her smile and posture, this was not the first date she had gone on with this boy. Shaking his head, he raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow before yelling for his husband. 

“JAWNNNN! ARE YOU AWARE THAT ROSIE HAS ANOTHER SUITOR?” He bellowed, stifling John, who was on the way back from the toilet.

“I am not...aware...” John replied, giving Rosie a pointed look. A slight frown pervaded his features as Rosie rolled her eyes at them, already about to protest. 

“I am not bringing him home. You scare away all my dates, Father. Every time I want to go out and have fun, you spoil it!” Rosie huffed and turned away from her parents. 

As she said that, Sherlock’s expression morphed into one of betrayal and disbelief. (All in all it was a hideous expression) 

John shook his head and came to his cornered husband’s defence, “Your Father is one of the best judges of character I know. Why don’t you just trust him?”

“I’ll trust him when he stops being a cockblocker!” 

“ROSIE!” Both John and Sherlock exclaimed.

“You are a female, your anatomy does not include a male appendage. Therefore I cannot be a ‘cockblocker’. Honestly, I taught you better than this.” Sherlock pouted, swishing his coat in a dramatic flurry before exiting the room. 

“Also, cockblocker is a bad word.” John added in (a little pathetically) before stroking Rosie’s shoulder, “We love you, you know.”

“I know, dad.” 

“Just bring him over before your date and you can go.” John sighed as he stared at Rosie. She really did look like him, precious thing. 

“Okay...I will. Just don’t tell Uncle Croft and Uncle Greg.” 

“I won’t.” John smiled. 

(Needless to say, Mycroft and Greg were promptly informed about Rosie’s potential suitor meeting on Friday.)  
~~~  
Sherlock grinned as Rosie ran to the door, eager to answer the door. She looked so worried, the poor thing, it was almost endearing to look at her in such a state of distress. 

John’s eyes narrowed as the door opened to reveal an Asian boy with a luscious head of black hair. His ears were pierced with black studs and there was definitely some sort of eyeliner on his face. He was wearing a leather jacket in a shocking shade of blue and a pair of slippers adorned his feet. (The tattoos were basically part of the look at this point)

Even on the earphones, both Sherlock and John heard Greg let out a disapproving gasp. It was quickly followed by a ‘shut it sweetheart, I need to see this’ by Mycroft. 

“Dad, Father, this is Asher.” Rosie smiled, albeit nervously, “I’ll go get him a drink.” To Asher, she flashed him an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” She mouthed before scurrying to the kitchen. 

“Asher, do take a seat.” Sherlock gave him his ‘new people’ smile, effectively looking like one of those killer clowns. 

Asher cleared his throat shakily before sitting on the couch, looking very pale. He had heard a lot about Rosie’s parents and had done his homework accordingly. (Extensive reading of John’s blog and a perilous trudge through Sherlock’s blog.)

“Thank you, Mr Holmes.” Asher nodded, before clasping his hands together out of anxiety. 

John immediately turned to Sherlock to give him the slightest of headshakes to signify his disapproval. Meanwhile, Greg was letting out a rather judgemental ‘hmm’. Rosie appeared, carrying a tray laden with cookies (chocolate, to sweeten up Sherlock) and cold water. 

As Rosie set the table and sat down on the couch, a very awkward silence ensued, with both parents scrutinising Asher and the two teens squirming around uncomfortably. 

“FOR GOODNESS SAKES, SHERLOCK, ASK HIM SOMETHING. YOU DON’T LOOK VERY NORMAL.” Mycroft yelled, the tension getting on his nerves as he glared at the screen. 

Sherlock winced and made eye contact with Asher, “So, Asher. What are your intentions with my Daughter and will your anatomy come between your relationship if taken further?” 

Rosie’s eyes widened and she hissed at Sherlock in Asher’s defence. (who looked very frightened and taken aback by Sherlock’s words) “Dad! You should have let him tell you himself!”

Asher shook his head and chuckled one of those weird chuckles where the person looks like they might shit their pants. “My intentions are pure, I wouldn’t want to offend or hurt your daughter’s feelings.” He paused to exchange a sweet smile with Rosie, who beamed at him like he was the center of her universe. 

“Of course, I am a transgender male but I don’t really see it coming in between us. Rosie has been very understanding.” Asher explained, his cheeks turning red, obviously a little embarrassed. 

“Aha!” Mycroft exclaimed through the earpieces, making John release a string of very inappropriate expletives. “Name, Ashlee Lee. Age, seventeen, one year older than our little Rosie. Lives at 56 Am-“

“Mycroft, shut up! I’m trying to interview a kid here!” Sherlock groaned aloud, making Rosie flush with embarrassment and rage. 

Momentarily forgetting that Asher by her side, she growled, “Father, did Uncle Croft look him up?”

Silence. 

“DID HE?” she leapt up from her position on the couch, looking like she was about to burst into one of her unfortunate fits of rage. (They have become a bit of a problem, and Rosie has been following John to therapy to cope with her anger issues)

Almost immediately, Asher stood up and rubbed Rosie’s back gently, trying to soothe her. His mouth came close to her ear (to Sherlock, John, Greg and Mycroft’s horror) to whisper words of comfort to cool her down. Rosie’s eyes were shooting deadly daggers at Sherlock, her cheeks turning a violent shade of red. 

“Shhhh, Petal, shhhh. It’s going to be alright. Calm down. Remember to breathe a little. Don’t be so mad.” Asher soothed, pausing occasionally to give John and Sherlock apologetic looks. 

John was, quite frankly, about to scream. Hearing Greg mutter the words, “Why the heck is he so near her...” didn’t make it any better. He could almost foresee this... tattooed, evil boy influence his little angel’s future by breaking her fragile little heart. 

As Asher calmed Rosie down, Sherlock’s manic grin softened into something much more genuine. His blue green eyes seemed to become a lot less piercing and more welcome. 

Through the earpieces, Mycroft murmured, “Yes, her- bollocks I mean his file is extremely interesting. Why...he’s...”

“ACCEPTABLE!” Sherlock pronounced, standing up quickly. John gaped at Sherlock from his seated position, not trusting himself to speak lest a string of very unpleasant words tumble out. 

Mycroft hummed his agreement while Greg spluttered incoherently. (“W-what??? Why????? asdfghjkl!!?”) As Mycroft scanned the screen, he took in Asher’s appearance one last time before pulling out his earpiece. “The boy needs a suit, that jacket is most unbecoming of a man.” 

Sherlock nodded as he awkwardly patted Asher’s back before saying, “Well...Have fun. The museum is holding a rather interesting fossil exhibit that I er... recommend you to go to.”

John seethed silently as he watched Rosie beam at Sherlock before giving him a very lovely hug. As she left with Asher, Sherlock grinned and locked the door closed. 

“What the hell? Sherlock, he had tattoos! And he looked...!” 

“He looked like a respectable gentleman who I have no trouble determining came from respectable household that are very accepting. I also know that he has a very good moral compass. That jacket is hideous but was being sold by a homeless lady on the street, he felt pity and paid her generously. He also learns a type of Chinese martial arts, judging by the types of muscle he seemed to have developed.”

“You are a fucking genius.” John muttered before shaking his head. 

“I know.”

“SHUT UP BOTH OF YOU AND JUST SNOG”

“Shut up Lestrade!”


	9. Proposing to my Sociopath (Johnlock)

John didn’t quite know how he got involved in a relationship with Sherlock. He simply remembered Sherlock being very excited and planting a gigantic kiss on his lips. His explanation was, ‘I think we needed that.’

Apparently Sherlock agreed. 

It’s been four years since The Kiss and John was very happy and content with where they were. They were boyfriends who solve murders and kiss and have sex. They were also Boyfriends who were still loving and sweet. 

The first time John actually thought about marriage, it was after a case. Sherlock was bouncing little Rosie on his lap, chuckling as she cooed at him. 

“Fa-da! Fa-da! Da-dee!” She squealed joyfully, unaware that Sherlock was taken aback by being addressed as ‘fa-da!’

“She sees you as her Father.” John explained, setting a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled as he mumbled quietly, “I like that.”

All that led up to now, as John was making his way back from the shop to pick up the rings. It took very careful planning to fool Sherlock and John was actually very proud he had managed to do so. 

He had been timing his own grocery runs to see how Long they were on average. He would then get Molly to buy all the things on his grocery list while he ran to get the rings and collect them on his way home. All within the average time it took for him to go to the supermarket. 

He felt like a spy. All to fool his brilliant Detective. 

“Honey, I’m home!” John announced, lugging the bags onto the kitchen counter. 

A very disgruntled Sherlock walked into the kitchen, carrying a wailing Rosie in his hands from a distance with a clear look of disgust on his face. “Thank goodness, please take her. She has excreted in her underwear and has not stopped screaming since.”

John laughed as he unconsciously felt the rings in his pocket, “Why don’t you go ahead and put the groceries in the food fridge and I’ll go clean her up.” (I’m going to just interject as the writer that Sherlock and John now have two fridges, for food and experiments because I can imagine them agreeing to this.)

Sherlock nodded, a tiny smile gracing his lips as he handed the still screeching Rosie to John. A gleeful grin spread throughout John’s face as he watched Sherlock unload the groceries into the fridge, totally unaware of the question John was about to spring on him that night. 

But meanwhile, he had to deal with a crying baby. John scrunched his nose at the stench from Rosie’s diaper.   
~~~  
It’s their weekly trip to Angelo’s. John was wearing his usual clothes, making sure to tuck the ring in his jacket pocket. He turned to Mrs Hudson, who sharing a knowing look with him as she patted his a comfortingly. 

“Now, you two go out and have a lovely time. The little babe will be fast asleep when you get home.” Mrs Hudson tickled Rosie under her Chin, rejoicing in the tiny peaks of laughter she was eliciting from the little one. 

“Sherlock, dear?”

“I’m coming!”

As Sherlock rushed toward John, John was almost awestruck. Sherlock was wearing a tasteful navy blue suit, dress shirt half unbuttoned and hair mussed up artfully with a touch of product. His pale neck was on display, with the exception of a pretty purple hickey John had placed the night before. 

“Well...um...shall we?” John muttered, walking forward to button up the rest of the shirt, blushing as Sherlock smirked down at him.   
~~~  
It’s final. It’s impossible, John cannot possibly propose to Sherlock. The rings shall burn forevermore in his pocket until he dies. Alone. Unwanted by anyone. 

Sherlock was making it impossible to propose to him. There was no opening for John to very quickly interject a ‘will you marry me?’. John nearly considered dropping the band into some wine and shoving it in Sherlock’s face. Alas, no such opportunity arose so that John could sneakily drop the ring into the drink. 

The setting was almost perfect, they were situated in a cosy corner at Angelo’s, a candle burning merrily in between them. Yet, somehow, John couldn’t find any opportunity to ask the four magic words. 

“Dammit Sherlock!” John groaned, interrupting Sherlock’s adorable rambling about gene splicing, “You’re preventing your own proposal!”

Sherlock paused. 

John paused. 

The whole world seemed to stand perfectly still. 

“I mean...erm...” John fumbled, taking out the ring with his shaky hands and bowing slightly to make up for not kneeling, “Be my husband? I mean...me marry...JESUS! Will you marry me?”

His heart was stalled in his chest as Sherlock’s shocked expression turned into one of utmost anger. Sherlock huffed and leaned back, muttering angrily under his breath. 

“Oh. You...aren’t ready?” John offered, heart sinking as he watched the love of his life say nothing in response. 

“No! I’m upset, John!” Sherlock hissed, crossing his arms and pouting. 

John felt like he was about to cry or wail. He was about toss the ring and eat a lot of cake. However, he swallows his embarrassment and asked Sherlock, voice a little raspy due to the sting of rejection, “Why are you upset, love?”

“I was going to propose to you!” Sherlock blurted, taking another ring out of his pocket and slamming it down next to the wine glass. 

John stared at the ring. 

A deep breath. 

“You daft angel! You made me think that you didn’t want to marry me, you complete idiot!” John laughed as he tried to scold Sherlock, effectively looking like a madman. 

“No! That wasn’t my intention!” Sherlock’s eyes widened in amusement as he shook his head. His voice lowered considerably as he said, “My answer is a yes.”

John’s chest felt so full that he felt that if he inhaled, he might burst. “Really?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock blushed, a crimson shade quickly spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. His eyes were fixed on the tablecloth, wandering anywhere except into John’s eyes. 

John smiled and used his fingers to raise Sherlock’s chin upwards to face him. Leaning forward, he marvelled the way Sherlock’s breath quickened when he was about to be kissed. His lips crashed into Sherlock’s, the Cupid bow mouth moving frantically against his own, mouthing his name in a way that sounded like heaven. 

When they pulled apart, they seemed to be in a perfect little bubble. Just the two of them, in a noisy bustling Italian restaurant. Perfect, happy and beautiful. 

“So...dessert to go then?” 

“Angelo!”


	10. 12 Reasons (Mystrade)

“What do you like about me? Name twelve reasons.” Greg asked, head lying rather comfortably on Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft was stroked the inspector’s hair thoughtfully, almost lost in his thoughts. 

Mycroft’s gentle massage paused for a second as his lips curled into an unreadable smile. “I must say, it is terribly straightforward of you to inquire why I like you. Why twelve? Perhaps it could be linked to your obsession with Christmas?”

Greg looked up at Mycroft and blushed, giving Mycroft a small smile as he replied, “Right again, Myc. Anyway, I was curious, is this where you say curiosity killed the cat my love?”

“Ah, but satisfaction brought it back.” Mycroft nodded, stroking Greg’s hair once more as he continued, “You shall have your answer next week. A list of reasons as to why I like you so.”

It broke Greg’s heart that Mycroft hadn’t yet said ‘I love you’ back to him. But he had to wait. Mycroft wasn’t ready. Sherlock and John were apparently the same, with John declaring his love first and Sherlock shyly saying it back a lot later. Apparently, the Holmes are shy. 

“Okay.” Greg reached a hand up to boop Mycroft’s nose, laughing as Mycroft stuck out his tongue in retaliation. After a little fooling around, somehow Mycroft’s lips had landed on Greg’s. 

To Greg, it was sweet, sweet heaven. 

“I like this.” Mycroft murmured.  
~~~  
Mycroft was holed up in his office as usual, exhausted after an intense argument with the MI6 director. He was just about to sent a brutal letter to the Queen when Anthea knocked on the door. 

“Sir, Mr Lestrade is here. He says it’s not urgent but would like to see you if possible.” The woman spoke, eyes permanently fixed on the screen in her hand. (Honestly, the fact that she can communicate while being so engrossed was what made her such an excellent personal assistant)

Mycroft’s chest tightened happily as he nodded, “Let him in.” 

Like an anxious schoolboy, Mycroft quickly glanced at the mirror to survey his appearance. He looked tired, eyes all droopy and cheeks pale. His frown lines looked more prominent and his tie was wrinkled. 

Shaking his head, Mycroft used his fingers to hastily comb back his hair as Greg entered his office. The inspector looked a little worse for wear, eye bags heavy and a slowing gait. (That only meant one thing)

“What did my Brother do this time?” Mycroft hummed, tapping the other side of the desk to tell Greg to sit. 

“Ugh.” Greg groaned as he collapsed on the chair, rubbing his forehead as he gratefully accepted the glass of water that Mycroft pushed in front of him. 

“Is it really that terrible?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow, pressing his lips together. 

“He’s excellent, of course but...he’s informed me that we have no less than seven moles in Scotland Yard.” Greg sighed, biting his lip, “He won’t tell me who. Just told me that it’s unfortunately not Anderson or Donavan.”

“My Brother is quite the piece of work, I sometimes find myself thankful that I do not work in close proximity with him.” Mycroft smiled fondly at Greg, “Do you want anything? Massage oil? A massage? Biscuits?”

“I don’t need those...I just need you.” Greg grinned as he reached over to clasp Mycroft’s hand in his. Mycroft’s cheeks turned a gentle pink as he rubbed little circles in Greg’s palm. 

“I’d so love to kiss you right now.” Mycroft announced as he hooked his leg teasingly over Greg’s calf, “But I have so much work to do.”

“Hmm...I’ll wait for you at home.” Greg winked, all signs of fatigue disappearing, a terribly cheeky look overcoming his features. 

Those plans for promised fun times, however, were unable to be carried out due to something unexpected coming up on Greg’s end. Poor Mycroft arrived to a silent house, no roaring fire or a sexy half dressed Greg. Just a pathetic note on the table accompanied with a cup of very cold tea. 

“Sherlock found the moles, have to go back to work. I’m so sorry that I’m not here. I’ll see you soon. Love, Greg.”

Mycroft had never felt so upset at Sherlock in his life. Okay, that was an exaggeration. Mycroft was far more upset when Sherlock childishly covered everything in his office with whipped cream. But still. 

So Mycroft sat on the sofa, grabbed a piece of paper and decided to make good on his promise to find things that he liked about Greg. As he wrote, the frown on Mycroft’s face turned into a happy grin. 

What I, Mycroft Holmes, like about Gregory Lestrade:

1\. The way he smiled when I first met him, despite the fact that I had essentially berated him on his incompetence.  
2\. His voice, which reminds me of what Mummy would describe as a gentle rumble of thunder.   
3\. His exemplary work ethic, he would worry constantly about cases but never lets his concern overstep boundaries.   
4\. The fact that I don’t think twelve reasons are enough to cover what I like about Greg.   
5\. His eyes, which I always, no matter how, will forget the colour of. It makes me want to hold him close to my face so that I can remember it forever.   
6\. His unusually deep understanding about my woes and concerns, of which shouldn’t ever concern him but it does, anyway.   
7\. The silly dates he brings us on that I secretly love. Especially the little picnics in the park at night. (Even though my best suit was thoroughly stained with grass stains)  
8\. The way he touches my face and tells me to calm down when I’m close to losing my composure.   
9\. The sex. (No elaboration)  
10\. The gentle kisses we exchange, almost daily but he still makes it feel like being kissed for the first time.   
11\. The fact that he loves me.   
12\. The fact that I love him. 

“Hm, what are you doing Myc?” Greg’s fingers sneaked onto Mycroft’s shoulders, massaging them as he settled his head on Mycroft’s left shoulder. 

Mycroft nearly flinched out of shock before answering truthfully, “Your list.”

“Christmas list?” Greg snorted, giving Mycroft a kiss on the cheek, leaning down to have a look. 

“Urm...no, not really. You can read it though...” Mycroft’s voice trailed off for the first time in his life. He ducked his head down as he felt Greg shift his head to get a proper peek at the paper. 

Greg mumbled the words as he read, eyes brightening with every line he read out. Almost simultaneously, Mycroft’s cheeks were tinted a slight red with every word Greg mumbled. When Greg reached the end, Mycroft’s cheeks and ears were basically the epitome of fire engine red. 

“The fact that...I...love...him...-oh Mycroft!” Greg exclaimed, turning so that he was directly facing the blushing man. 

“I...erm...couldn’t quite...tell you.” Mycroft finished lamely, trying to look away from Greg’s passionate gaze. He tried to grab the paper and get out of his seat but Greg held him down by his waist instead.

“I love you, Myc.” Whispery touches floated over his shirt, loosening the tie he wore. 

Mycroft groaned as Greg kissed him, mouth falling open, allowing Greg’s tongue to sneak in. Each touch was leaving a burning sensation on his skin. Noises left his mouth, high and needy, wanting something more. 

“God, you know I love you.” Mycroft gasped, throwing his head back as Greg unbuttoned his shirt to kiss his neck. 

Greg laughed as he continued unbuttoning Mycroft’s shirt, “It isn’t the sex talking, is it?”

“No...i...it’s the small things...that I love about...ah! Oh god, Greg please!” Mycroft but his lip as Greg let his tongue run over his nipple, nipping it slightly. 

“Hmm...let’s be gentle tonight. Since you’ve finally admitted to loving me.” Greg hummed as his fingers tilted Mycroft’s head to face his heated gaze. 

“Oh fuck yes.”


	11. Secret Admirer (Johnlock)

“Who put this in my locker?” Sherlock snarled, shoving the offending piece of paper under Irene’s nose. He sniffed disapprovingly at it as Irene squinted to look at it. 

“An admirer sent this, Sherlock. It’s a heart.” Irene laughed, taking the paper to read the little message written on it. 

You’re so pretty.

“An...admirer...” Sherlock mumbled, not believing his luck. Who could ever be his admirer? Everyone in this school (save for Irene) found him detestable. And he hated everyone back with a passion. 

Well...not everyone. 

“Hiya, Sherlock! How are you?” John grinned his usual winning smile, the one that made Sherlock swoon internally every time he witnessed it. 

“I’m doing alright,” Sherlock mumbled, ears turning pink as he snatched the paper heart from Irene.

“Sherlock has an admiiiiiiirrreeerrr!” Irene sang, giggling at Sherlock’s flustered state. She gave John a suggestive wink and slowly licked her lips for effect. 

Much to Sherlock’s horror, John expressed interest in Irene’s statement. He leaned forward, reaching for the paper in Sherlock’s hand. That gave Sherlock a quick window to sniff the soft almond scent wafting out of John’s blond locks.

“Oh, well that’s very nice!” John grinned, fingers accidentally brushing Sherlock’s as he talked. 

Sherlock flinched as he glared at the scrap of paper. It was probably someone seeking to humiliate him. They would want him to become a stupid prancing hopeful who would put him hands to his chest and gasped like those annoying cheerleaders who constantly trailed the rugby team.

And when they get bored of leading him on, they’ll break him with their laughs and jeers. Well, not today, idiots. 

Sherlock stared at the paper and sighed. Sneering at the heart, he ripped it into tiny pieces and left it scattered on the greasy floor. When he looked up, he saw John staring at him, baby blues wide open. 

“Uhh...it’s probably a prank. They didn’t put my name.” Sherlock mumbled, clutching his books tightly to his chest as he walked past, “I need to get to class.”  
~~~  
Sherlock, you shine. :)

Sherlock had a perfectly crafted look to react to the note; he didn’t do anything. He opened the note, ignored the silly wishful leap in his heart and slipped the note in his pocket. 

“I...shine?” Sherlock wondered, smiling at his feet as he walked to biology class. 

This one was addressed to him, his name underlined three times in regular black ballpoint ink. The handwriting was a little messy and slightly slanted as if it was written in a hurry. The lined paper was folded into fours and cut to look like a four leafed clover. A cute little holographic sticker in the shape of a heart was pasted on the back. 

Although the secret admirer probably didn’t exist, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel a little flattered. It was nice to know that someone liked him, or even bothered to pretend to. At least they tried to sound that they liked him. 

“Sparkly Watson! Sparkly Watson!” One of the rugby player’s loud voices pervaded Sherlock senses as he saw Mike Stanford and a group of rugby players guffawing. 

Sherlock bit back a grin as he saw John slap Mike’s arm playfully, whole face literally shining with sheepish amusement. A large holographic sticker in the shape of a star was pasted on the rugby player’s forehead, making John become the center of attention. 

Sherlock slowed his steps, taking time to marvel at John’s adorable embarrassed face. He crawled past the rugby team, pressing his lips in distaste as the sweaty backs of sportsmen made contact with his arm. 

“Oi! Whatcha up to Sherly boy?” A tall boy named Charles Magnussen (affectionately called Charlie by his mates) slapped Sherlock’s back with force, causing Sherlock to drop his books.

The statement had no bite to it, no vicious intent to wound Sherlock mental state. Yet John sprung to Sherlock’s side immediately, poised to defend Sherlock.

“Woah, Charlie. Calm down.” John firmly stated, gripping onto the boy’s arm a little too hard. 

“Ow! Okay, chill. Don’t get your boxers in a twist mate, just being friendly!” Charles sniggered, pulling his arm away from John’s nasty grip. 

“Sorry, Sherlock. He’s a bit-“

“I can fight my own battles, Watson.” Sherlock snarled, feeling humiliated that he was so weak. He gathered his books quickly and tried not to look at John, trying to will himself to look upset. 

Somehow he made eye contact with John, holding the blond’s stare for a full thirty seconds. John’s lips were curled into a half smile, hesitant and cheeky. 

Pointing to the star on his forehead, John explained, “Coach wanted a reward system. The boys got out of hand with it... They apparently can’t be trusted with stickers.”

Sherlock nodded awkwardly, trying not to freak out about the mere five centimetres that kept them apart. He could nearly smell the mint in John’s breath and was trying not to desperately sniff John’s mouth. 

“Star...” Sherlock’s voice managed to come through, making him sound enthralled at the idea. 

“Here.” Watson’s eyes shone gleefully as he peeled the star off his forehead and pasted it onto Sherlock’s cheek, “A star!”

Sherlock froze, his brain pausing to relish the touch of John’s callused hand against his cheek. John was touching him. John was touching him. JOHN WAS TOUCHING HIM. OH MY GOD. 

When he zoned back in, Sherlock was staring at the empty hall, cheeks burning with a naughty shade of crimson.   
~~~  
Over the past few weeks, Sherlock received a lot of love notes from his secret admirer. Some of them were adorable and some made him downright blush. He was also becoming closer to John, who seemed to be making a lot more conscious efforts to include Sherlock into his group of friends. 

Sherlock, you are the most precious thing. 

Sherlock, you’re wonderful. 

Honey, I want to make you smile. 

And some of the more um... weird but flattering ones:

If I could fit a pair of thigh high stockings in your locker, would you wear it?

You have the sweetest lips. I wonder... how it would feel if I kissed them. 

My clever baby boy. 

Somewhere along the way it turned into full on letters, letters that told Sherlock wonderful things that he dared to believe. Letters telling him why he(secret admirer is a guy) liked Sherlock and soon it was becoming so much. 

The letters were filled with truthfulness and affection, and Sherlock couldn’t help but fall for the person writing them. 

Sherlock couldn’t fight the oncoming blushes that came with each message if he tried. It was all too lovely, too endearing. He wanted to find out who it was. But he knew that if he found out, he would ruin it. The notes would stop. 

If he tried to confront the writer, or catch him. He might not like Sherlock. He would probably be all happy about it at first but will change his mind about Sherlock once he got close to him. And he’ll leave and never come back and break Sherlock’s heart. 

So Sherlock just let it happen. And he basked in the happiness he felt every time he received a message. Yet somehow, in the bottom of his inner consciousness, he wanted more.   
~~~  
“Sherlock, just a random question.” John asked, rummaging through his bag for his lunch, “What happened to the secret admirer?”

Sherlock sighed from his position under the shady tree, he honestly doesn’t know what to do about it. He hasn’t talked to Irene about it because her responses are totally flawed. She would suggest something like “Find them and snog them.” 

So he told John. He told John, the literal love of his life about how he might be falling for someone else, someone whom he doesn’t even know the name of. He told John about how wonderful the person sounded and how he wished to get to know him, even if his personality might drive him away. 

He didn’t tell John the most haunting thought in his mind though. The thought that made him a little excited and afraid at the same time. The thought that Sherlock was slowly but surely falling away from John. 

“They sound lovely.” John spoke reassuringly, patting Sherlock’s shoulder. It was the first thing he had said after hearing what Sherlock had said.

“Do you...think so? I don’t know. I may have an infatuation with this person but if I want to allow my feelings to grow, I want to know who it is.” Sherlock complained, feeing the weight of the newest letter burn in his pocket. 

“You could write back.” John smiled, the tips of his ears turning a slight pink. (Must be from the heat of the sun....)

“I could, but I fear that I may not sound totally coherent.” Sherlock bit his lips hesitantly. 

“I could er... help you.” John grinned, grabbing his bag and reaching in the take a piece of paper. 

“Oh...ok.” Sherlock was dumbfounded, is this what friends do? He had no idea. He was just thankful that he could maybe get to know the person behind the letters. 

They slaved away at the letter during lunch, with Sherlock doing almost nothing and John slaving away on the paper. Sherlock didn’t even glance at the paper, he just provided a “hmm, yes.” whenever it was required. 

“Done.” John’s suddenly shy voice intruded Sherlock’s thoughts, “You should read it.”

“Alright then.” Sherlock nodded before unfolding the paper and smoothing it put on the grassy ground. 

The first thing he noticed was the paper. The regular lined paper covered with the slanted messy handwriting he knew so well. Sherlock felt his heart clench as he read the letter:

Dear Sherlock, I’ve decided to tell you who I am. Three guesses? I just wanted you to know. Because I like you. A lot. I have been wanting to tell you because every time we talk I can barely string a line of coherent words together. Every time you tell me how you are able to deduce people, I want to tell you that you’re more than brilliant, more than amazing. Since I’ve gotten to know you, I’ve liked you more, your personality didn’t drive me away like you said. I do want us to be something, even if you’re not sure. Because I liek everything about you Sherlock (yes, even the annoying bits). I just like you. Love, your secret admirer.(John H. Watson)

“Sherlock...” 

“You spelt ‘like’ wrongly here,” Sherlock pointed out, leaning closer to John to point out his error. He could definitely hear John’s breath hitch as his shoulder brushed the blond’s. 

“Well, it’s hard to pay attention to spelling when I’m so close to you, isn’t it?” John whispered, sneaky fingers tracing teasing circles on Sherlock’s arm. 

“Well... it’s the same for me.” Sherlock mumbled, using his left hand to capture the John’s hand, intertwining their fingers together. The letter was left on the ground, being the object of nobody’s fascination. 

John smiled at Sherlock, whose eyes were fixated on how perfectly their hands fit together. The taller was shocked into silence and he was just smiling fondly at their hands. 

John’s hand snaked around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him in, the hand holding Sherlock’s snaking upwards to his face. He gently caressed Sherlock’s jaw with his thumb, marvelling at the swirling greens and blues in his eyes before finally getting lost in them. 

Sherlock’s eyes drifted shut as John pulled him closer to capture his lips in his own. A little sound escaped from his mouth as John twined his fingers into his curly locks. Everything was so warm and so good and Sherlock didn’t know if he could stop. He felt shaky, like a tiny lamb, yet the comforting feel of John’s hand on his jaw kept him grounded. 

When John drew back, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, his face was visibly red and flustered. 

“That was my...” Sherlock stuttered, biting his slightly puffy lips, “First...kiss...”

“Was it a good kiss then?” John blushed, his face still ever so close to Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock nodded and nuzzled John’s cheek, hiding his burning face. His whole face felt hot and his lips were tingly. “I don’t think I can kiss again, I’m really hot.”

“That you are.” John laughed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock. His hands stroked the other’s back gently, trying to reassure the suddenly very shy Sherlock. 

“Almond, you smell like almonds.” Sherlock’s muffled voice drifted to John’s ears.

“Do you want to smell like me too?” John snorted, reaching a hand up to massage Sherlock’s scalp gently. 

“Noooooo. You smell good.”

“So do you, strawberry.” 

Sherlock leaned in, bumping his nose against John’s, his breath ghosting over John’s lips. As he tried to press his lips against John, neither of them anticipated the hollering of the entire rugby team and the one and only Irene Adler. 

“About time you two got together. You’re truly a sight!” Irene purred, flicking her wrist towards them in a perfected motion. The rugby team hollered their assent, 60% of them totally captivated by The Woman. 

Holmes jumped, like a skittish deer being yelled at. John grinned and waved back, his spare hand dropping down to the curve of Sherlock’s arse. 

“About time, Watson! You’ve been writing to him forever!” Lestrade yelled, winking exaggeratedly. 

“Shut up, Greg!”

Sherlock ducked his head and whispered, “Wanna give them a show?”

“Oh god yes.”

And that is the story of how both Sherlock Holmes and John Watson became boyfriends. (And get suspended for having a very heated make out session under the tree for 10 minutes.)


End file.
